


A Strong Stomach

by applecore



Category: Fallen London | Echo Bazaar
Genre: Belly Kink, Nonnies Made Me Do It, Other, The Apicius Club, Vore, belly inflation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-23
Updated: 2018-05-23
Packaged: 2019-05-12 23:59:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14738246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/applecore/pseuds/applecore
Summary: The delights of the Apicius Club are many, varied, practically endless. You’ve tasted so many over the years: the truffles soaked in prisoner’s honey, the delicately roasted bats with a single letter of the Correspondence branded on their left wings, for heat. Wines and stranger alcohols, waters that glow green and taste of memory, cordials that settle in your belly like the sun. Your palate is refined to a razor’s edge.You are, in a word, bored. But tonight you’re promised something new.





	A Strong Stomach

**Author's Note:**

> __**Who are the Apicius Club?**  
>  A gourmet society of quality and taste. There are three requirements for membership: an avid appetite, a fondness for the outré and a strong stomach. (A dining club like no other.) 
> 
>  
> 
> \--Failbetter Games

The delights of the Apicus Club are many, varied, practically endless. You’ve tasted so many over the years: the truffles soaked in prisoner’s honey, the delicately roasted bats with a single letter of the Correspondence branded on their left wings, for heat. Wines and stranger alcohols, waters that glow green and taste of memory, cordials that settle in your belly like the sun. Your palate is refined to a razor’s edge.

You are, in a word, bored.

But tonight you’re promised something new. Well, not quite, for is anything under our false stars truly new? But it’s not been seen in an age, since long before you came to this sun-forsaken place. The club has discreetly invited its most favored members to a tasting, and among that number is you.

You enter the club; pass on your hat, coat, cane; eye the select crowd. The Jaded Reporter follows in just behind you, unimpressed as usual, though he summons up a smile for you. “How you do, old chap,” he says.

“Fine, fine,” you reply absently, puzzled. The Reporter’s tastes have always been a bit prosaic, to be honest. Lots of thick mushroom steaks topped with fried ravens’ eggs, that kind of thing. “You reporting on this for the The Daily Fungus?”

He twitches, then nods. “That’s right.” He’s got pretty eyes, you notice, as you always do. As always, you regret you couldn’t have met him earlier, when he was a little less jaded and more open to the pleasures of the flesh.

You haven’t time to say more. The maître d’ beckons each of the company in, one by one. When it’s your turn, you find yourself in a small room all alone, with a divan and a small side table for company. “Begin with this,” the maître d’ says, gesturing to a tiny glass bottle on the table. Whatever’s in it moves thick and slow and of its own volition, like some nightmare dreamt of upon the zee. “Perhaps follow it up with the brandy,” she advises.

The stuff is vile. Horrid. Bitter and soapy and a little rotten. It slides down your throat and then seems as though it might crawl up again - not some euphemism for a weak stomach, but an actual description of the properties of the stuff. But you swallow it a few more times until it’s cowed, and then you chase it with brandy.

You lie back on the divan, not quite in keeping with your usual comportment, but the brandy was strong stuff, and you’re feeling relaxed. Really, quite relaxed. The taste of the stuff slowly fades from your tongue until you can barely remember it, and that squirming in your belly settles into a ferocious hunger. What is taking the maître d’ so long? Your stomach is a gaping hole within you; if you don’t fill it soon you’ll fall into it yourself and be swallowed whole.

Swallowed whole by your own stomach? By the Masters, what was in that little bottle?

The maître d’ reappears at last. She takes one look at you and smiles, the easy smile of a professional who sees their job well done. “I believe you’re ready for the main course, now, sir,” she says.

You don’t trouble to tell her you haven’t had any courses yet. You’re in no state to wait around for a dainty cup of soup. “If you please,” you say, manners strained to the utmost.

She doesn’t wait for you to answer, anyway. She’s already striding across the room to the opposite wall, which is, you realize now, just a heavy curtain. She draws it, and on the other side is the Jaded Reporter. He’s entirely unclothed and appears slathered with some rich, dark fluid. In fact, as he shakily approaches you, you catch a whiff of it: the club’s famous secret sauce. The kitchen commonly uses it to marinate its meats and heartiest mushroom steaks.

“You reporting on this, too?” you ask inanely.

He smiles so you can see his green-stained teeth. His eyes are brighter than you’ve ever seen them, genuinely pleased. “Could be,” he says.

Your mind’s been grinding away slowly under the influence of the tonic the maître d’ dosed you with, but you’ve got an inkling now. That hollow in your stomach seems just about the Reporter’s size. “Can a fellow come back from this kind of thing?” you ask.

He shrugs, still grinning and utterly care-free. “Guess I’ll find out.” He steps even closer. 

The very heat of him tantalizes to the breaking point, and dear god, the _smell_. “Well,” you say, unsure how to begin. 

“Shouldn’t be difficult,” he says. He doesn’t sit on the divan. Instead he wobbles there, as if his joints can’t quite hold. He presses a saucy hand pressed to your shoulder for balance, probably ruining the shirt. No matter. “They gave me something. I’ll stretch out like taffy, I expect.”

“Well,” you say again. You grip his forearms and open your mouth.

He’s not the only one who stretches like taffy. You can’t say quite how it happens, but your mouth and throat open easily for the full breadth of his shoulders. Then you’re down to his waist, slender leaning towards bony, and then his knees which are easier still. You tug and shove and swallow, and then his feet are slipping down your throat.

He’s gone, you might say, except he’s still so very, very present. Your waistcoat and shirt have burst their buttons. Your trousers are in shreds. Your belly rolls out before you, obscenely round, absurdly full. The gaping hollow is filled at last, and you were right: the Reporter is exactly the right size. You’ve never been so sated in your life. 

You’re covered in house sauce, you notice. Your mouth is coated with it, and it’s spattered all over your clothing. A small price to pay; the roast spider-council you and your friends once partook of was far messier. Also this meal seems less likely to send you to the tomb colonies with holes burned in your guts and new eyes on the back of your head. 

You shift a little on the divan and smooth your hands over the Reporter. The shape of your belly elongates and then smoothes out again as the Reporter rolls over: a bizarre, almost erotic sensation you might take advantage of if you had any hope of touching your manhood. As you haven’t, you only lie back and let yourself take in the full weight of your belly. You are splendid, you decide. Magnificent. A wonder to behold, the perfect picture of satisfaction. (Perhaps you are still feeling some of the effects of that vile little bottle.)

You wonder how long the Reporter will take to digest. You hope it takes quite some time.


End file.
